


Aspera Ruinam, Facile Portum

by pocketTherapist



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Ardyn Is From Niflheim, Ardyn Is Not A Sack of Demons, Canon Disabled Character, F/M, Lucis Wins The War, M/M, Mors Is A Dick, Multi, OT4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:39:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketTherapist/pseuds/pocketTherapist
Summary: Niflheim has been conquered. Its former crown prince rules as regent. The younger prince, Niflheim's beloved Healer, has been taken back to Insomnia as collateral for his kingdom's good behavior.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is Starsilver's fault. Blame her.

Ardyn lifts his chin. The tiny gesture of pride won't save him, but pride is the only thing he has left, and by the Six he's damn well going to cling to it. 

 

He's facing down the king of Lucis, after all. The new king of Niflheim as well, now, if he thinks about it. 

 

His Majesty Mors Lucis Caelum looks down at Ardyn through the bars of his cell as if he's inspecting a small rodent of some sort. Ardyn meets his gaze steadily, refusing to show any sign of fear or submission. He'd spit in his captor's face if he thought he could get away with it, but Ardyn is hoping for a quick execution rather than a long, agonizing one, so he restrains himself. 

 

He wonders if Somnus is dead yet. 

 

Mors makes a considering noise. 

 

“The Healer Prince. Did you know, there are mobs outside the palace? They're begging for your life. Interesting, that. Not the life of their emperor, or their crown prince, but for _ you. _ ”

 

He sounds like he's considering how best to use that information, and Ardyn's blood runs cold. 

 

Whatever Mors has in mind, it's probably not going to be pleasant. But the king turns and strides off without sharing any more of his thoughts, leaving Ardyn with a knot of anxiety in his chest. 

 

They explain it to him two days later as he's being dragged from his cell. 

 

“Niflheim will adjust to foreign rule much better with a regent, one of their own, to implement it. Obviously, the emperor has to die. But it would be so nice for relations if their two former princes were to be seen cooperating with the new regime. The crown prince has already agreed, naturally. He will rule here, and in exchange, you will come to Insomnia to the Citadel.”

 

The matron overseeing the guards is beaming at him, as if this is the best thing she can think of. Ardyn wants to ask how being a prisoner _ there _ rather than _ here _ will make any difference, but he knows that it will give his people a not-so- subtle threat to keep them in line. 

 

_ Listen to this prince, or the other one gets it.  _

 

He grits his teeth against the manhandling as they strip him and hose him down with icy water. They drape him in a white linen robe and Ardyn can _ barely _ refrain from commenting on the regrettable choice. Honestly, do they  _ want _ him to look like he's spent the week in a cell? 

 

But no, it's vulnerability they're aiming for. Mors gives him an approving once-over that does nothing for the chill running down his spine.

 

The exchange ceremony will be held this afternoon, apparently. 

 

_ What ceremony,  _ Ardyn nearly demands. The only Niflheim hostage exchange ceremony  _ in history _ is almost a thousand years old, meant for captive generals and triumphant warlords. 

 

It was also, he remembers, sometimes a binding ceremony. A marriage, in modern terms. 

 

Of course they'd use this ceremony. The point is humiliation and subjugation, not whatever diplomacy it's dressed up as. Somehow, the thought fails to reassure him. Wasn't one of the steps…

 

Oh, Astrals.

 

Mors signals, and a retainer steps forward with the instruments of his humiliation--a simple, heavy iron collar, matching cuffs, and lengths of weighted chain connecting them. 

 

Ardyn refuses to struggle, despite the fear knotting in his chest. His people are counting on him. He gives Mors a sardonic little smile as the retainer kneels at his feet, and offers his wrists up without complaint. The collar settles around his throat with icy finality. It's a monstrosity, designed to forcefully bend the head of whoever's wearing it. Ardyn keeps his head raised proudly anyway, despite the strain it puts on his neck. 

 

Mors chuckles like he finds the entire spectacle amusing. He probably thinks little of Ardyn's meager defiances, but they're the only thing allowing Ardyn to keep his composure in the face of his upcoming ordeal. 

 

They parade him through the streets like a prized animal. The procession starts and ends at the Imperial palace. Ardyn keeps his head high the entire time, making fearless eye contact with each of the people who meet his gaze.

 

His people do him proud. They stand in solemn, neat lines, utterly silent in the face of his degradation. Some weep quietly. Only once does the procession stop, when an elderly grandmother breaks the line to throw herself at him. She drops tearful kisses on his face, and Ardyn bows his head to her tiny form as he has to no one else. They have only a moment before a flustered guard strikes out at her with his baton. Ardyn turns into it, taking the blow on his shoulder, and passes her gently back into the hands of her family before he's dragged onward. 

 

The guard quails before Ardyn's steady gaze, choosing instead to jerk roughly on the lead chain attached to his collar. He barely manages to catch himself before he stumbles, with his hands bound as they are. 

 

His neck is aching and his bare feet are worn raw by the time they return to the palace, where more of his people stand in a massive, silent throng before the raised dais where Mors and his retinue stand. A few of them reach out towards him as he passes, but Ardyn is dragged up the steps to the dais without being allowed to respond. 

 

He stands in silent, proud defiance before the king. The crown prince and his queen stand behind the makeshift throne, their Shield and the king's stolid presences at their flank. To Mors’ left stands the Immortal himself, his gaze locked on Ardyn as if deciding how best to slaughter him. Ardyn ruthlessly represses the terror he feels at the sight, dropping his eyes in an unintended show of submission. 

 

The nervous Niflheim official swallows repeatedly and launches into the mercifully brief ritual words. Ardyn here is no more than the stand in, the personification and embodiment of Niflheim itself, being sworn to more or less eternal servitude. Finally, the chain the guard is holding, the lead attached to his collar, is ceremoniously handed over to the King. 

 

Ardyn  _ truly _ does not appreciate being this close to Mors or his rabid dog. 

 

Mors gives him a saccharine smile, no doubt sensing his discomfort, and tugs Ardyn a little closer, beckoning Cor over with a careless wave of his hand. Ardyn jerks back reflexively, succeeding only in choking himself against Mors’ iron grip. 

 

The Immortal looks about as displeased as Ardyn feels, his impassive glower not shifting in the slightest as he gives Ardyn a dismissive once- over and looks to the king. Mors’ smile widens, showing teeth, and Ardyn shudders despite his best efforts. 

 

Mors passes the lead over to Cor.

 

His world spins, the bottom dropping out of his stomach, and for a moment--only a fraction of a second--Ardyn wants to throw himself at Mors’ feet and beg for mercy. But no, his people are held hostage to his good behavior, and they will take their cues from him. Ardyn grits his teeth and gives the Immortal as much of a bow as he can manage. 

 

Mors is speaking. 

 

“Come now, Cor, what else am I supposed to do with a prince, lock him in a tower? This way, I can keep an eye on him, and know he's under control. Besides, you can think of this as a sort of… gift. A reward for your faithful service, if you will.”

 

The entire Niflheim contingent inhales as one, but Mors raises a regal hand as the protests break out. He reaches out to cup Ardyn's chin where he's standing frozen in front of Cor, and as one, the populace stills.

 

The king smiles, every inch the cat that caught the canary, and inclines his head to the stunned crowd. Releasing Ardyn, he whirls and stalks back off into the palace, waving a careless hand behind him as he orders the Lucian party to prepare for departure. 

 

Ardyn casts one last, long look over his shoulder as Cor turns away to follow his king. His people meet his eyes squarely, solemn and silent, and Ardyn inclines his head to them before he follows his new masters. 

 

They are Niflheim, and they have weathered worse storms than this. 

 

Ardyn has never been prouder. 


	2. Chapter 2

They take a Niflheim airship back to Insomnia. Ardyn wants to be offended on behalf of his country, but when compared to the other injustices suffered today, it hardly registers. They've removed the chains, for the most part, but the collar still rests heavily at his throat. It's a statement of ownership, no doubt, a reminder of his status. Ardyn stands at parade rest behind the Immortal’s chair and tries to blend into the background as much as possible. His bad leg is in agony after the long day and the preceding confinement, but Ardyn refuses to let his weakness show.

At least there are no private rooms. It may be inevitable, but he would prefer to delay being taken by the king's dog for as long as possible. It will do him no good to dwell on, though, so he forcefully wrenches his thoughts from the topic.

He whiles away the hours by reviewing his knowledge of Lucian culture, history, and whatever other tidbits his erstwhile tutor had managed to scrounge up. Niflheim in general had disapproved of any resource that depicted their enemies as human, but Ardyn's curiosity has never been limited by politics.

The scraps of knowledge he has hoarded won't save him, but he clings to the hope that he may find some kind face among his captors, or that he can earn himself some sympathy instead of simply being “that Niff.” Meager coin it may be, but they have not taken Ardyn's greatest weapon from him, and his wits have yet to fail him. He can play at politics, if his master the Immortal sees fit to allow him some small freedom.

If only his courage did not quail at the thought of what price that favor may come at.

The ship lands with a gentle thump, and Ardyn braces himself for the stairs and what lies beyond.

The triumphantly returning party exits to the roar of Insomnian citizens, Ardyn struggling to keep pace with Cor's measured strides. He feels terribly vulnerable, still barefoot and clad in a thin white robe, the collar around his neck.

At least they have left his hands free this time.

The quiet breaks over the crowd in ripples as they see him, not the hush from his own people but a curious, whisper-filled sussurus that ebbs back and forth. There’s a long moment of near-silence and then the first shriek breaks from the edge nearest him.

“Murderer!”

Just like that, the wave breaks, and Ardyn flinches away from the wash of hatred that swells to a roar as he passes by the rows of furious citizens. Most of them have probably lost someone to the war, he knows, and by sheer virtue of being the enemy, by being present, he has become the focal point of their rage.

Two of the guards step up beside him, ostensibly to shield him from the mob, but their grip is bruising as they each take an arm, and Ardyn stumbles as they drag him forward faster than his leg can keep up. By the time they have passed into the Citadel proper, his leg is trying to give out from under him, and Ardyn wants only to be left alone to lick his wounds.

They leave him in a locked, barren room with no windows. It’s not a cell, technically, just an undecorated guest room. Ardyn remains on his feet through a supreme act of will and the knowledge that if he falls here, he won't be able to rise again. Instead he slumps against the wall, allowing his head to drop forward as the collar demands. For the first time, he notices that his bare feet are in fact bleeding. He amuses himself by thinking vindictively of the little smears of blood he's no doubt tracked across the Citadel's patterned floors.

He wonders if the Immortal will come to him, or if he'll be taken to the man's private chambers.

Ardyn has had his share of partners, but it's been a while since he's felt free enough to take one--not since the war began to look dire, at the least. He won't taint their memory by pretending the Immortal is merely another lover.

Gods, but he's so terrified. The sick feeling in his stomach is overwhelming even the pain through his spine and hip. He wants to cower in the corner like an animal, but Ardyn refuses to give them the satisfaction of making him something less than human.

He waits for hours. Time slips into a blur of pain and fear, leaving him only vaguely aware of his own trembling body. His mind drifts to better places--not the palace, but a humble little cottage with a healed little girl and a celebrating family. Gratitude had faded to genuine companionship, and he'd slept before their hearth that night without a care in the world. It's one of his happiest memories.

The expected interruption comes not from the door to the hallway, but a smaller one inset into the wall. He'd thought it a closet, or something. Instead, the Immortal enters. Ardyn is nearly numb, by now, and straightens to bow carefully towards where the Lord Marshal has stopped, just in the entrance, his eyes flicking around the barren room.

“My Lord. How may I serve?”

The words tumble easily past his lips, as if he's not offering up everything he has.

There's something hard and terrible in the man's eyes, despite his blank expression. He turns away and orders flatly,

“Come.”

Ardyn steels himself and pushes away from the wall, wavering for a moment as his leg threatens to give out on him, but staggering after the Marshal obediently.

Cor leads him through the doorway into what must be the Immortal’s own bedroom. Ardyn stops in front of the four-poster, forcing himself not to twist his hands together with his anxiety.

“You'll be spending the night here. There's a bathroom through that door, if you'd like to clean up.”

Ardyn swallows hard. He just wants this over with.

“I'm fine, my lord. How do you want me?”

Cor gives him a look.

“I don't care.”

Helpful. Should he take off his robe? Just lie down? Eventually, he settles cautiously on the side of the bed, only to immediately nearly collapse back into the pillows with relief as his hip gives a grateful throb. For access to the bed alone, Ardyn thinks he could almost put up with anything Mors’ dog sees fit to do to him.

Instead of joining him on the bed, through, Cor turns and makes to leave the room. The question slips past his lips despite himself.

“Where are you going?”

Cor pauses without looking back.

“I'll be on the couch.”

Something like disgust touches his voice, and he vanishes, closing the door behind him.

In any other circumstance, Ardyn might be insulted. As it is, he feels only a wave of relief so strong he almost passes out. A quiet near-sob escapes him, even as he shifts to be more comfortable.

Although, now that he realizes he isn't about to be raped, Ardyn would gladly kill for access to a shower. He's not quite exhausted enough to pass up that opportunity.

With a groan, he grits his teeth and rolls back out of the bed.

The bathroom is about as utilitarian as he'd expected, but it serves his purpose just fine. The problem comes when he climbs out of the shower and realizes that the only item of clothing he currently has access to is the white thing they'd put on him earlier--today? It feels like forever. Ordinarily, he'd just sleep nude, but he's not quite comfortable with that, not here.

With a grimace, he shrugs back into the linen abomination and returns to the room. Somewhat astonishingly, even given his exhaustion, he slides easily into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 


End file.
